Category Archives: new york city

Lame Adventure 278: New York Hospitality

Posted on February 13, 2012 | 10 comments

This weekend, my buddy, Coco, celebrated her birthday, a relatively innocuous one since this year’s ended in a three, not a digit from the trinity of dread — zero, five or nine.  We settled on a plan to meet at 6:30 at an Italian restaurant we frequent in Greenwich Village. This gave me time to run a quick errand before hooking up with my pal.

When I returned to my sanctum sanctorum to pick up Coco’s birthday gift* and head downtown, I noticed that The Trash Phantom had visited my building while I was out.  The Trash Phantom is That Wily One that leaves  junk prominently displayed within close proximity of the trashcans without putting said junk actually inside the trashcans.  The Trash Phantom must deem this junk as having value to some schnook passing by in this neighborhood, where the average resident earns $80k.  I do not earn anywhere near $80k, but I also have standards and an immense fear of athlete’s foot. Therefore, this pair of purple plaid rain boots from The Eyesore Collection stuffed with an umbrella near my building’s trashcans had zero appeal to me.

Eyesore Collection Rain Boots. Look for them in the finest neighborhoods on Manhattan's Upper West Side.

Considering the massive bedbug scare that plagued Gotham City in 2010, I’m very skittish about most junk I see on the street.  Yet, I suppose if it was a pillowcase stuffed with gold doubloon, my skittishness would instantly evaporate and I could easily access my inner pirate.

Regular readers of Lame Adventures, all three of you, may also recall that The Trash Phantoms have left outside my Casa de la Shangri-La fedoras, office furniture, and my personal favorite, an odd looking stuffed fish that reminded me of a tennis ball, possibly because when it was put out for grabs the timing coincided with the US Open tennis tournament and I had tennis on the brain.

Back by no demand, odd looking stuffed fish that reminded me of a tennis ball.

As usual, I wondered about the mentality of someone that would leave a pair of rain boots and an umbrella out for the taking.  Did this person think they were being altruistic, were they ambivalent about chucking rain boots that they knew were still in decent or possibly never worn condition, or were they someone with such advanced attention deficit disorder, they were distracted by a low flying sparrow, and completely blanked on their intended task, dumping the rain boots in the trash?

A few years ago a Trash Phantom left a vacuum cleaner out on West End Avenue.

Adopt-a-vacuum-cleaner.

They attached this note that I thought was responsible.

Sincere sounding adopt-a-vacuum-cleaner note.

Possibly The Trash Phantom of the Rain Boots could have done something similar:

Umbrella – like new.  Rain boots. Woman’s size [whatever].  Never Worn.  Have strong purple plaid aversion.  Please rescue.

*Coco’s practical birthday gift from me — a harmonica and a Mars candy bar – obvious useful objects my fashionista cohort would never think to give herself.

Perfect for the woman that loves Chanel.

10 Comments

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Lame Adventure 275: Depressing Sight

Posted on February 2, 2012 | 19 comments

One night this week I was waiting for an uptown local subway train to take me to my destination, a movie theater where I was going to meet my friend, Felipe.  I was standing on the platform with fellow members of the beaten-down-after-work-heading-to-the-land-of-gin-and-tonic crowd.  Most of the herd was looking in the direction of the dark hole of a tunnel for an oncoming train’s headlights that were nowhere in sight.  I was focused on the tracks fixated on this depressing sight.

"Is that what I think it is?"

The curled green cover made me think that this little book, whether it held addresses, notes, or the answers to all of the important secrets of life (where do all my lost socks go?), had probably belonged to a woman.  Yet, maybe it belonged to a guy who is colorblind or indifferent to color or simply a fan of green and has a leprechaun fetish.  Whoever this notebook belonged to, he or she probably had no idea what happened to it.  As pessimistic as I am by nature, I like to think that it was not the owner that tossed this little book into the tracks.

Little green notebook meeting its depressing end.

I imagine its owner probably just thought it disappeared and entered the void, as lost things often seem to do.  Then, after realizing our loss we think:

We (thinking):  Where the hell did [whatever that is] go?

Through the years I’ve asked that exact question about the aforementioned lost socks, as well as gloves, umbrellas, tickets, lip balm, packs of gum, pens, keys, photographs, my American Express card, and rather fabulously two crisp twenty dollar bills that had the unmitigated gall to sprout wings before my eyes when I stopped to use a pay phone at least 25 years ago.  How that happened was I unzipped a fanny pack I was wearing strapped across the front of my body.  I dipped my mitt in for change and my wallet-less cash flew out in the summer breeze and sailed gracefully in tandem into the slits in a sewer grate.  I looked helplessly down in the grate at them looking up at me at least ten feet out of my grasp forever.  My half-deaf ears were in better shape in my reckless youth for I seem to recall hearing them snicker.  I vividly remember that sick feeling of loss I suffered as if it happened yesterday.  This was also the last time I  wore one of those tourist-type nerd packs anywhere on my body ever again.  Even though I knew exactly where my cash went, that incident also absconded with one of the many missing pieces of my mind.

My battered Moleskine notebook safe and sound ... for now.

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Lame Adventure 273: “Says Who!”

Posted on January 25, 2012 | 4 comments

The other morning at The Grind, I was passionately bellowing to my colleagues, my sidekick, Greg, and (not) Under Ling (anymore):

Me:  Never trust a woman that can pee standing up!

Although I now completely draw a blank about what we were discussing that I was so vehemently compelled to deliver that particular declaration at the top of my lungs, I clearly recall that at that very moment of me babbling, our boss, Elsbeth, entered.  I was instantly motivated to hit my mute button and change the subject to floor and wall tile, my specialty in her employ.

Before my Lord and Master’s presence pulled the plug on the lively conversation with the Gang of Two (note: our beloved colleagues, The Quiet Man, moved on last fall, and my buddy, Ling, received her Get Out of Jail Free card last Friday), (not) Under Ling (anymore) casually mentioned that she had read in the New York Daily News that tourists rank New York as the Number One city in rudeness.

This detonated Greg and I.  We trampled each other coming to Gotham City’s defense.  I concur with Greg’s blanket assessment:

Greg:  New Yorkers aren’t rude!  They’re aggressive!

And sometimes, first thing in the morning, just too damn loud.

My next career move, gluing sticky notes onto miniature wooden pallets.

4 Comments

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Lame Adventure 272: The White Stuff’s Back

Posted on January 21, 2012 | 6 comments

It last snowed in The Big Apple in 2011 on October 29th when a freak Nor’easter shattered October snow records dumping close to three inches of snow in Central Park.  I have resided in New York for almost 30 years and have never once experienced snow in October.  I was a bit miffed at the timing of that autumn snowfall because my old snow boots had sprung leaks from the previous hard winter.  Loathing boots that produce wet socks, I ordered replacement snow boots from the Lands’ End Ugly Style Great Price Collection on October 21st.

New snow boots. Ugly style. Great price.

I figured that was easily a month before I could possibly need them.  My new boots had shipped October 24th but I did not receive them until two days after that storm on October 31st.  Happy Halloween to me.

Fast forward to the present when I can finally wear my new Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots.  I break them in when I drop a lit match on my kitchen floor and I stomp it out with my left boot.  The match is swallowed whole into the deep grooves of the boot.  Fearing that very soon my left foot will ignite, I risk an expensive neck injury and contort myself Cirque du Soleil-style to examine the boot’s grooves for signs of flame, or at least signs of the expired match.  There’s no sign of fire or any match detritus whatsoever.  I think:

Me:  Well, that’s odd.

Apparently my new Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots have some appetite, or else my foot could spontaneously burst fully into flames and then cough up the remains of that missing match.  I’ll keep you posted.

Foot in Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boot with power to devour lit matches whole.

Since there’s nothing unusual about snow in January in New York City I venture outdoors to check out the action in Riverside Park.

Currier and Ives-y looking southern entrance to Riverside Park.

Eleanor Roosevelt statue wearing a shawl of snow as well as an insulting splat in the eye.

I imagine that kids that had been aching for an opportunity to go sledding down the park’s hills all winter are now in their bliss, but I notice this sign.

Shirley, you jest!

Upper West Side kids and their parents are clearly undaunted.

"We will not be denied!"

As I trek through my neighborhood I see more familiar sights of the season.

Unhappy Vespa, "Someone please tell my owner it's winter!"

Unhappier bike, "Why the hell can't you take the rest of me inside?"

Uncollected trash, "If bags had middle fingers we'd flash them at that annoying blogger-photographer in those Ugly Style Great Price Collection snow boots."

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Lame Adventure 271: Mood Altering Substance

Posted on January 19, 2012 | 8 comments

Thus far, this has been an irritating week commute-wise.  Although it is part of my charm to come into work twenty minutes late every morning, this week I have had extra assistance in the Department of Tardiness from the MTA due to signal problems plaguing the downtown 2 and 3 express subway trains.  Usually, I hop onto the express train at 72nd Street, and ride it to 14th Street where I transfer to a waiting 1 local to take me the rest of the way to The Grind.  Yet, this week, every time I have done my trademark hop onto the express, it’s been crawling like a constipated snail from one stop to the next.  It has been moving so anemically, local trains that arrived after I boarded the express have not only passed my train like it was standing still – and indeed my train had been standing still, but my moving-in-inches express train failed to catch up to the local trains that have bypassed my train.

This activates my ire as well as my gastritis.  Logically, I know it would benefit my overall health and well-being if I were not inclined to not “sweat the small stuff” .   It would also behoove me  to make a genuine effort to leave earlier, but I don’t have a choice in this matter.  If I recall correctly, my astrological sign is Disgruntled.

Furthermore, on Terrible Tuesday, as my practically paralyzed express train was doing the equivalent of Tai Chi moves from one station to the next, it dawned on me that in my haste to get out the door, I forgot to bring the quart of skim milk I pour on the bowl of organic, lightly sweetened tree bark-flavored cereal I had planned to eat at my desk.  Inside my head, I used the Lord’s name in vain — such a convenient time to be an atheist.

When I finally arrived at my place of employ, We’re Not Happy Until You’re Unhappy, a full half hour late, the first person I encounter is my musician sidekick, Greg. He’s looking cheerful.  I announce:

Me:  Signal problems!

Greg:  Sure, that’s what they all say.

I growl at him.

Greg:  I got you something.

Me:  I hope it’s a quart of watery skim milk!

I approach my desk and see this welcome sight.

Herbal essence?

My foul mood instantly evaporates.  Greg is looking at me, smiling slyly.

Greg:  You know, it’s that tea I told you about last week, Assam Hazelbank.

Me:  Oh, yes, that tea … my second guess!

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Lame Adventure 269: George was Here

Posted on January 13, 2012 | 6 comments

I am kicking off my three-day holiday weekend after work with my friend, Albee.  When I last saw him in December, we dined at a Spanish restaurant in Greenwich Village called Café Espanol.  The fare is simple,  home-style grub.  We decided to pass on ordering the house red and popped an extra seven bucks for a Tempranillo that the waiter suggested.  We also liked the wine’s name and label – Tempra Tantrum.

Ole!

After we paid, the waiter returned with our change which included a Where’s George? dollar bill.

Dollar bill with Where's George? stamps.

For those unfamiliar with Where’s George?, it’s a geek web site that tracks currency.  The site has been investigated by the US Secret Service because they used to sell rubber stamps and it’s illegal to deface currency.  The Secret Service informed Hank Eskin, who started the site in 1998, that the stamps are considered advertising.   That motivated him to  stop selling them, the Secret Service got off his back, and the site continues.

A not too big big deal to the Secret Service.

More Where’s George? trivia is that users are considered Georgers.  Apparently, unstamped currency may also be registered on the site.  These unstamped bills  are known as stealths in George-speak.  I imagine the vast majority of stamped or stealth Where’s George? currency has been entered by procrastinating students or glazed-eye types that work soul-sucking, get rich poor quick  office grinds.  Hm, what must that be like?  I don’t think anyone would take a pause during foreplay and suggest this buzz-kill:

Foreplay Pauser:  Hey, what do you say, let’s climb off each other and track all the cash in our wallets now?

I had encountered another Where’s George? single a few years ago shortly before visiting my niece, Sweet Pea, in the San Francisco Bay Area.  I thought that Sweet Pea might like to go online and track the bill.  She found that idea about as enticing as watching grass grow, but still wanted the bill.  Since I have such a winning way with children, I vaguely recall barking:

Me:  If we don’t track it, you’re not going to inherit it!

Although I was carrying my current Where’s George? dollar in my wallet (tucked in a side pocket) during my most recent visit West, I completely forgot about it since I’m infected with the same sky-size hole in my memory as my boss, Elsbeth, who recently asked me:

Elsbeth:  What day is it?

Me:  Thursday.

Elsbeth:  I meant to look at my calendar, but I forgot.

Me:  That’s why you have me.  [pause] What were we talking about, Boss?

Well stamped single.

According to Wikipedia, “As of December 19, 2011, Where’s George? is tracking 200,768,040 bills totaling $1,081,902,862.”

I looked at my bill and wondered where it might have been, so I went online to check it out.  First, I looked at some of the top 20 traveled bills.  One bill has traveled 24,000 miles since its initial entry in Newport, Vermont in November 2008.  I wondered:

Me:  Huh.  Will my bill top that?

Off to a snail slow start.

My Where’s George? bill was entered in Scarsdale, New York in November 2011.  Thus far, it’s traveled 17 miles to reach me.  Clearly, this Lame Adventures single has exited the starting gate at a crawl.

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Lame Adventure 258: Let’s Discuss Holiday Cards

Posted on December 20, 2011 | 16 comments

Due to my growing like kudzu contempt for the US Postal Service for their consistently crummy delivery of my favorite magazine, The New Yorker, I had decided that 2011 was the year I was going to join the legions of former holiday card givers and end my tradition of sending holiday cards out of spite.  I briefly considered e-blasting Jib Jab e-cards but I decided against that since most of us are already inundated with too much crap on the web.  Luckily for the US Postal Service, my dear friend, Milton, talked me into sending holiday cards this year.  He is right; recipients like to receive hand written paper cards, but considering that he was sending sixty, I’d be inclined to sign my name with a rubber stamp.

Around Thanksgiving I embarked on my annual search for the appropriate card in questionable taste.  Milton feels very strongly about sending traditional holiday cards.  Pictured below is his elegant greeting of the season that he found in his favorite card store, Papyrus.

A holiday card dripping with elegance, taste and a ton of glitter. The crease comes courtesy of my letter carrier, Alice Sneer.

Milton sent sixty of these beauties and in each he hand wrote a personal note.  In mine he composed this heartwarming sonnet: “Have a truly cynical Xmas!”

When I opened it half a pound of glitter fell out and I anticipate I’ll be seeing shiny stuff sparkling in my humble abode well into 2012.  That’s cool with me.  I much prefer it to the large economy size jar of 183,217 popcorn kernels that I spilled in my sanctum sanctorum’s kitchen 28 years ago.  I’m still finding those kernels through today which is amazing since I even had my kitchen floor replaced.

Traditional holiday card tied with swatch of real ribbon from my best friend from college, BatPat.

There used to be a hole-in-the-wall greeting card/gay male novelties shop on Christopher Street I frequented for all of my greeting cards called Alternate Cards.  The guys that ran the place were very quiet men of South Asian decent.  Forgive me for being so narrow-minded, but they did not strike me as the type of chaps that reveled in selling penis-shaped pasta or cards captioned, “My left leg is Christmas.  My right leg is New Year’s.  Come up and see between the holidays.”  Yet, this shop was the best source for off-the-beaten-path holiday cards in New York.  Unfortunately, they suddenly shuttered about three years ago.  I don’t know if it was for the usual reason terrific businesses cease to exist — their rent was raised obscenely high, or if they were actually a front for al-Qaeda.  I do know that I miss them terribly.

Card from my boss, Elsbeth, with note on the back, "This Card was Printed Letterpress by Hand on a 100-Year-Old Chandler & Price Platen Press." Excluded note, "This card was not purchased at WalMart."

Then I realized I could send holiday cards based on cartoons that were published in The New Yorker.  I decided I would do this forever, but forever ended this year when production of tee shirts, mugs, and greeting cards featuring New Yorker cartoons ceased.  That was another devastating loss.

Adorable card from my sister, Dovima, that instantly triggered my cat allergies.

Last summer, the fine folks at Café Press gave me a sweet deal on their Stranger’s Day cards by New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chast.  I decided that they would be my new go-to source for holiday cards, but there was one barrier to this brainstorm.  Most of their cards were “eh” at best, and the few I liked said, “Merry Christmas” inside. I have several Jewish and atheist friends so that was a no go.

Hand-selected just for me card from my friend Martini Max.

Many of the funniest holiday greeting cards I’ve sent through the years were published by Noble Works, but I was at a complete loss as to where to find their cards.  I Google searched them and within a nanosecond discovered that they’re based in New Jersey, they have a vast library of a variety of greeting cards available online, I could buy my holiday cards directly from them tax-free, and if I needed any further incentive to hit my enter key, they were including free shipping, too.  As much as I would like to say that Noble Works online is my new go-to source for holiday cards, I have learned the hard way that this type of completely satisfied customer thinking invites a curse.  Therefore, I will offer my endorsement of Noble Works – and hope that this company outlives me.

My 2011 questionable taste holiday card:

What is not widely known is that this wabbit is a direct descendant of Bugs Bunny.

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Lame Adventure 257: ‘Tis the Season for Anger Management

Posted on December 12, 2011 | 19 comments

So I was in my market, the original Fairway on the Upper West Side, patiently waiting my turn at the deli counter.  My number, 83, is called by a deli worker; a woman that’s so short she might have been a circus midget in her previous job or a previous life, but I would never hold lack of height against anyone.  Hey, I’m short, too.  I tell her I would like one third of a pound of the roast pork loin.

She doesn’t know what that is.

I can see it but it’s on the far side of the glass cases.  It’s the weekend so the deli counter is a mob scene.  In addition, I’m standing near a meticulously made-up wisp of an elderly woman swimming in a giant fur coat that some guy probably gave her in 1950 when she was a knockout.  My buddy, Coco, who is rather petite and a knockout 2011-style could be this person in sixty years.

Christmas decoration to me from Coco.

This elderly woman also has a shopping cart blocking the entire lane.  It holds a single head of lettuce.  As I try to maneuver around her, her cart and a crowd of fellow shoppers, to point out the pork loin to the clerk, the elderly lady starts moving her cart at a snail’s pace blocking me further.  I make an effort to get out of her way.

Meanwhile, Angry Man, a guy about my age – over forty and under death — and coincidentally the winner of the Paulie Walnuts You’re Gonna Die and I Mean You award, won’t move an inch to let the old lady pass.  Now I have to move around him, her, and her shopping cart to show my pint-sized clueless clerk what’s the roast pork loin.  As I’m making my way around these three obstacles, she, equipped with half the strength of a newborn hamster, brushes him from behind with her cart.  This slight contact packs as much power as an infant’s fart.

Christmas decoration to me from Coco.

When I get to the side of the counter where I can finally point out the roast pork loin to my baffled clerk who’s so short I cannot even see the top of her head behind the glass case so I’m not even sure she’s standing there, Angry Man starts shouting threats.  It takes me a while to realize that he’s directing his tirade at me, prompting me to ask:

Me:  What?

Angry Man (screaming):  You shoved me!  Now it’s my turn to shove you and believe me, you’re not gonna like it!

He steps towards me ready to commit assault.  I step back.

Me (incredulous):  Huh?  Why do you want to shove me?

Angry Man (insistent):  You know what you did!  You’re rude!  You shoved me!

I know that there’s no point telling him that it was Miss Subway 1942 that was the culprit since she is also half-blind, long gone and he wouldn’t step aside to let her pass.  I decide to just pretend that I’m guilty of the offense to placate him.

Me:  I’m sorry, Sir, I wasn’t aware that I shoved you, but since I did, I apologize.

Angry Man (obsessed):  You shoved me!

Me:  Look at me, I’m tiny, I would certainly never intentionally shove anyone, much less a guy your size.

He’s at least a foot taller than me and 75 pounds heavier.   That frazzles him, so he pipes down.  Then, out of the blue, Miss Buttinsky, just the type that Coco would call – but not in these exact words, a “vagina-bag” standing next to Angry Man — and they weren’t together , volunteers her two cents:

Miss Buttinsky:  You shoved him and you know it!  You can’t get out of this by acting innocent now!

I instantly think:

Me (thinking):  Who the [sexual intercourse] are you?

Miss Buttinsky clearly wants to see blood and preferably, mine.  Her spouting off reinvigorates Angry Man.

Meanwhile my miniature clerk is now also yelling at me wanting to know if she’s holding the right deli meat.  I say:

Me:  Yes, one third of a pound please.

Angry Man is screaming at me again, the same nonsense about me being rude:

Angry Man:  I’m gonna make a fist and make you pay!

I think:

Me (thinking):  Pay for a blow job and relax!

I say:

Me:  That’s not necessary to threaten to assault me.  I’ve apologized.  It certainly wasn’t intentional.  Look around, this store is crowded.

I gesture around us at the mass of humanity and I stifle the need to murmur a scatological term meaning excrement knowing full well that I’m surrounded by enemies I never knew I had.

Angry Man again defuses.

Miss Buttinsky (self-righteous even though she did not see anything that happened involving either the now long gone elderly lady or me):  You should have said ‘excuse me’ to him!

I suddenly regret my life-long loathing of the NRA.  If I owned a pistol, I easily could have whipped her on the spot.  I choose to say nothing further and continue to completely ignore her.  Angry Man starts whining about me to another customer.  The tiniest clerk on the planet then gives me one quarter of a pound of deli meat even though I repeatedly requested a third.  I just take it and split feeling lucky to be alive and less mentally ill than my fellow customers.  I head over to the bakery hoping that Santa gifts my deli-peers anger management courses as stocking stuffers.

Since I’m on a downhill slide, I again encounter that elderly lady, who I have now decided is my own personal jinx.  In a plastic bag, I put both a sandwich roll and a sour dough roll, but I am oblivious to the bag being defective.  It has a hole.  My sour dough roll slips through and falls on the floor, but I don’t notice this.  I feel lucky that Miss Buttinsky and Angry Man did not witness this.  Surely, she would have tried to have me arrested for vandalizing the store and if this case would come to trial, both would vote in favor of execution.

I return home and hide beneath my bed for the remainder of the day.

Poster illustrating the few calm people that shop at Fairway.

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Lame Adventure 227: Bad Influence

Posted on September 6, 2011 | 16 comments

Our employer closed business early on Friday so my colleagues and I happy danced our way out the door to the tune of Born Free into the three-day weekend.  The weather was lovely as I entered the subway station determined to have a highly productive 72 hours focusing completely on household chores and writing.  Just as I set foot on the subway platform I noticed that I received a text message from my buddy, Coco.

45 minutes later, my original plan is drowning in Sangria.

On our way to Sangria-land, Coco and I walked from TriBeCa through SoHo.  As we strolled west on Houston Street, we passed several street vendors selling their wares.  We have sauntered past street vendors countless times without them ever registering on our radar, but on this occasion, one stand that was essentially full of junk caught all four of our eyeballs.  In lockstep we motored over to this table to further inspect a Mad Men-era Polaroid 150 Land camera.

Don Draper’s Polaroid.

Coco:  This is such a cool camera!

Me:  Yeah!

The vendors, two women in their mid to late sixties, or maybe they were in their late forties and just looked to us as used as the goods they had on display, or possibly they were in their late seventies and they’re of French descent, and are actually aging far better than the rest of us … but I digress.  However old they were they were oblivious to Coco and I drooling over this relic designed by Polaroid’s founding father, Edwin Land.

Coco:  I want it!

Since I am the older and by default more level-headed half of our equation, I frequently remind young Coco that there is no such thing as retail therapy. It is infinitely more important to save than spend. Therefore,  I dole the following advice:

Me:  Go for it!

It’s a camera and cameras are my kryptonite, and apparently, they’re Coco’s, too.  You know someone for over six years and go figure, you continue to learn new things about them every day.  Coco signals for one of the vendors to approach.

Coco:  I’m interested in this camera.

The vendor takes it out of the box, and shows us how to open and close the bellows.  She has no idea how old it is but insists that being in the original box enhances the value.

Folded Polaroid 150 in box.

She’s pretty certain that this camera is still operational.  Upon hearing that, I briefly escape my delirium.

Me:  But they discontinued making the film.

Vendor (cornered):  They discontinued making the film?  Huh.  Hm.

Coco:  How much is it?

The vendor asks her partner the price and is told $50.

Coco (boldly to vendor):  I’ll take it!

Afterward, we are sipping our Sangria and chowing on tapas with the camera on display on our table.

Box with bullet hole, but Coco’s okay with that. She’ll claim that it originally belonged to a member of the mob.

Suddenly, we both have an eiphany and do a spit-take at each other:

Me:  You could have bargained with them!  We had leverage!  The film’s obsolete!  Why didn’t I think to tell you this?  Am I losing my edge?

Coco is wiping my Sangria out of her eye.

Coco:  What’s wrong with you, what’s wrong with me?  Am I so used to shopping at Barney’s I have no clue how to price haggle with old ladies selling junk on the street?

Then Coco reasoned that even if she did overpay for it by $15, she’s okay with springing for drinks for those vendors.

We later did some research on that camera.  Approximately 400,000 Polaroid 150’s were manufactured between 1957 and 1960.  In its heyday, it sold for $109.95, the equivalent of $873.14 in today’s dollars.  Upon reflection, Coco got a pretty sweet deal on this novelty after all.

Say cheese.

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Lame Adventure 195: Coco’s Meatcake (Better Late than Never)

Posted on June 4, 2011 | Leave a comment

First, I feel compelled to clarify that the title of this post has nothing to do with my dear friend Coco’s taste in men.  Last March I was shopping for tooth twine, while pondering what should be the major dramatic question for a tragedy I’ve been penning over the course of thirty years called The Desert (My Sex Life), when my cell phone rang.  The caller was Coco so naturally I was delighted.

Me (happy):  Hey Buddy!

Coco (ecstatic):  I was walking home from work when I saw this tower of raw meat and I immediately thought of you!

Insert musical cue: the downbeat.

Me:  So it was rotting, saggy and gristly?

Coco (instantly picking up on my tsunami of depression): No, silly, I thought of Lame Adventures!  I saw this raw meat wedding cake made up of chops and bones and steaks and bacon, and thought, “What is that? I have to tell her!”

Me (intrigued):  You saw a raw meat wedding cake?  Who orders a raw meat wedding cake, S&M types that wish they were lions?

Coco: That cake would be appropriate for Alice and her butcher boyfriend Sam from The Brady Bunch if they ever tied the knot.

I’ll have my slice grilled medium rare.

Good point, Coco.

As for the story behind that cake which unfortunately is no longer on display three months later, Coco reported that it was from a very inventive cake bakery called Collette’s Cakes located at the corner of Washington and Charles Street.  They also baked a birthday cake that looked like a spiral ham for when Bette Midler turned sixty.  Maybe when I turn sixty Coco will have them bake me a cake that looks like the Sistine Chapel to compliment my atheism, or when The Desert (My Sex Life) reaches the Best Seller list, whichever millstone (sic) arrives first.

Since June is the most popular month to tie the knot, if any couples out there want more esoteric style wedding cakes, possibly one that is a replica of a dishwasher or weed whacker, Collette’s appears to be the go-to source in that department in Gotham City.

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